Days of Utter Dread by Graham Masterton

Author:Graham Masterton [Harris, Graham Masterton and Dawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781804542194
Publisher: Head of Zeus

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Bartek returned from the office at a quarter past seven. Kasia was standing in front of the stove, stirring a saucepan of spaghetti Bolognese. Before he took off his black Puffa jacket, Bartek came into the kitchen and dropped a bunch of white roses onto the counter.

‘These – well, these are to say that I’m sorry I hit you. But I think you can understand why I did it. I was late for work as it was, and I can’t afford to lose this job, Kaska. They’ve already given me two warnings.’

Kasia looked at the roses. He had obviously bought them on his way home at the Biedronka supermarket, only two minutes away on Kozańowska Street. They all looked sad and limp, and several of their petals were already turning brown at the edges. Bartek hadn’t even had the wit to peel off the sticker that said przecena – reduced in price.

‘Aren’t you going to put them in a vase?’ he asked her. He was still standing in the kitchen doorway, and his tension was obvious. Until she had accepted them, he wouldn’t feel that she had forgiven him.

Kasia opened up one of the kitchen cupboards and took out a cheap cut-glass vase that the previous tenant had left behind. She filled it with water, and then tore the cellophane off the roses and stuck them into it, without bothering to cut the stems or arrange them.

‘If you ever hit me again, Bartek, I will walk out of here and I will never come back.’

He took off his jacket and hung it up in the dark, cramped hallway. ‘Don’t be stupid, Kaska. Every couple has their arguments. And anyway, where would you go? And what other man would have you?

He came into the kitchen again and stood close behind her, playing with the fronds of her hair.

‘How long is that supper going to take? I’m dying of hunger.’

Kasia thought, You can have your supper right now, if you don’t mind my throwing it against your crotch.

‘Another ten minutes. Once the spaghetti’s cooked.’

‘Jesus! How many times a month do we have to have spaghetti? You don’t have Italian blood in you from somewhere, do you? Maybe your granny was gang-raped by a battalion of Eyeties, during the war.’

I love my grandma. I love her dearly. Don’t you dare to say disgusting things like that about her.

‘Spaghetti’s cheap. If you brought home a bit more money, we could have steak.’

Another moment of tension. Bartek wound his finger around her hair and gave it a sharp tug – not hard enough to pull it out, but hard enough to hurt.

‘Okay. Bring it through when it’s ready. I’m going to watch the football. I’ve missed half of it already.’

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